


Awake

by st_ivalice



Series: simul stabunt, simul cadent [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: A King's Tale, Accordo Trip, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_ivalice/pseuds/st_ivalice
Summary: Two times Regis needed Clarus to get him out of bed, and one time Clarus needed him.





	1. Noon

_724 M.E._

“Regis is still sleeping?”

Clarus gave the king a shrug as if to say _he’s your son_ , and his mother gave him an exasperated look to point out that Lucian royals were always late risers, Mors included.

The king sighed, knowing this was the third time this week, that no attendant would, _could_ tell the prince off and drag him out of bed like Clarus did.

“Let him sleep. But if he’s not up by noon, you can have your way with him,” he said, shooing him.

Clarus was careful not to meet his mother’s eye, for she knew how he would interpret the king’s words, even if the king was unaware.

He bowed his leave, “Your Majesty, Mother.”

Nothing escaped the Lady Shield’s eye but her suspicions were unfounded, or rather, she had not found any reason to intervene or caution her son and sworn shield to the prince in _affairs_ as of yet. Perhaps because, as it were, there was no consummation. It was simply observed that he and the prince were close, got on well, and spent much of their time together, exactly what both the King and Shield wanted in their heirs and the security of the kingdom. At twenty-two, his mother hadn’t pushed on him potential wives, not seriously, and he suspected she was still assessing, still waiting to see what became of her son and the prince. Clarus took a deep breath; so was he.

Their roles drew them closer with each passing day and they did not question it, accepting anything new they dared to try to test the bonds and boundaries. He was thankful Regis was not cruel; that he was not like some of his ancestors who had abused their power and trust of their Shields. Still, it was some kind of suffering the Astrals had burdened him with, to have an intense and fathomless devotion and duty to their Appointed, to be young and virile and sworn to spend the rest of his life with this princeling, this future King. He saw it but two ways: to love Regis, or to never have sworn his oaths.

It was his curse then, that he should desire him as well. Because he could have loved Regis as just his friend, his brother, as he did with Cor, whom his mother had taken in to harness and hone, but no. He had to redirect his frustration into endless, rigorous training, because a carefree, impatient, idealistic Prince had hold of his heart. And he did not even know it, not truly.Yes, Regis was a young man now, eighteen, but still boyish, still being weaned into the fullness of his duties. There was a loose understanding Aulea would be his wife, but that was years from now and the prince was still discovering that he had liberties, if a few, in the things he enjoys, in the things he might desire.

Very quickly, Regis discovered he could keep most attendants at an armslength; the only one needed, thrust upon him was his Shield. He could do what he pleased as long as his Shield allowed it—and _allowance_ was his best judgement. Amicitia were bred for their blood, their blade, and their boldness. They told Kings what needed to be said, did what needed to be done, and occasionally, forced their princes out of bed. Up until sixteen, Regis had been an early riser, but once he took the crystal’s magic, it drained him constantly and he required more sleep. The Crystal’s toll was immutable, but Clarus will deal with the extra hours of sleep now and the insomnia when they’re older.

He finished his morning training, sat in on the Council meeting, and when that concluded at eleven fifteen, he headed straight to Regis’ quarters. The curtains were still drawn, and Clarus rolled his eyes. Once, he let him sleep just to see how long he’d do so and he didn’t wake until 5 pm, and by that time, he had forced Regis awake, afraid he wouldn’t.

Clarus started opening them all. “Rise and shine, Your Royal Sleepiness,” he said, and when he reached the third one, he finally heard him rustle and sit up.

“Clarus?”

He should have remembered, should have prepared for Regis’ state. Royals, with their public life, never truly have privacy and as such, never really have a mind for decency, at least not with their close attendants who dressed them, prepped their formal wear, told them the state of the kingdom at the start of the day. Hell, even _he_ was not afforded that courtesy when he slept in the Citadel or even his mother’s home. He had nearly the same responsibilities as the prince and the same lack of privacy. But he rarely woke Regis up, not with their differing sleep schedules and morning training.

So he forced himself to regain his composure when he turned from the windows to the sight of Regis bundled haphazardly by the linen sheets, his nude wiry frame in the sunlight. Clarus took in his bare shoulders, the elegant curve of his neck, the toned muscle of his thigh and bony knee.

Regis blinked sleepily at him under the tousled curtain of his dark hair.

“Hrmm?” he hummed, not trusting his voice to remain steady.

“Why are you here?” he asked groggily and yawned.

Pushing aside the sight the Astrals blessed him with this morning, Clarus made his way toward him, smiling. “Waking up _your royal ass._ ”

Regis laughed. “It’s too early for that, Clare. Did my father send you?”

“Noon’s _too_ early?”

He made a noise that said it was. “So that means father _did_ put you up to it, then.”

Clarus leaned on the bed post, crossing his arms. “I can’t wake you up of my own accord?”

“How does that benefit the Prince’s Shield? It’s much easier to watch a sleeping prince.”

He looked at Regis and inclined his head. “I’m not usually the one doing the watching.”

In the sunlight, he saw exactly how color flushed his shoulders and cheeks. Regis huffed and glanced away.

That was a low blow, but they always ignored that it was a thing that happened and that it was, essentially, routine for them; the Prince watching his Shield train from the mezzanines. Clarus kind of wanted to discuss it, as much as protocol and training screamed at him not to. Because he enjoyed it too. He didn’t deny that he put on a show.

“So,” he started, “Make my job easier won’t you?” He succeeded in getting Regis to sit up, so that was progress.

Grinning, Regis had the confidence to look at him again and said, “I _am_ your job, Clarus, and you know I’m never _easy._ ”

Clarus rolled his eyes. “Don’t I know it. You’re a _brat_ , is what you are.”

“Only for you, my Shield.” Yawning, Regis stretched, giving him a generous display of the lean muscles along his chest and abdomen, and fell back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his arm. “Wake me up in five minutes.”

Clarus was quick. “Nope. Not doing that,” he said, kneeling on the bed and wrestling his arms above his head. When Regis looked up at him surprised, his eyes quickly becoming unreadable, he realized his error. His Prince lay pinned and naked underneath him.

Regis’ breath hitched, and Clarus got to see up close the delightful flush that rose from his chest, sure his breath against his skin was causing it. He saw how his prince’s eyes glanced at his lips as he parted his. It was not his intent to corner his prince, but Clarus dropped his eyes to his lips as well.

A beat passed and Regis sighed. “I’m awake.”

Clarus clenched his jaw and released his wrists, shifting his weight to get off him. “Get dressed,” he said, turning his back to finish opening the curtains. “I won’t ask you again.”

He felt Regis’s eyes following him and Clarus ignored his gaze, heading to the chaise that had Regis’ oft-neglected robe draped over it.

Perhaps this was another of the King’s tests. Perhaps his mother had shared her observations and they were both pushing their sons into corners, but he knew they were not cruel either, not after their fathers had tried to direct their lives. He remembered that his mother had not been the first selection as Shield for Mors despite her birthright, her father and the king choosing her cousin. And she set her own course, training, understanding Mors’ needs, her first friend who supported her claim to the oath. They had defied their fathers, performing the first and most private of oaths themselves and the kingdom was forced to accept it.

As he held the silk robe in his hand, he considered what he and Regis might do to defy their own traditions. To meet the needs and demands of their own bond and reign. To meet their desires. Regis kept a steady eye on him, watching him approach.

Clarus knew that look; the defiance, the adamant resolve, the expression he made when he was fully channelling the role of a prince, of a king. He offered the robe, but Regis ignored it, standing up, leaving the sheets on the bed.

Another moment passed between them and Clarus understood he was the vulnerable one now, despite being fully dressed.

“Tell father I’m up, will you, Clarus?”

Oh no, he was not playing this game right now. “Tell him yourself.” Clarus clenched his jaw and crossed his arms again. “Your father gave me permission to do with you as I please. So,” he said, nodding his head at the bathroom, “Hurry up. Before I get creative.”

There was a spark in Regis’ eye at the threat, and it made his gut twist at the implication. “You going to watch me and make sure I do as I’m told?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do I need to?”

Regis shrugged, heading to the bathroom. “Do you want to?” he tossed over his shoulder just as he moved out of sight.

Clarus shut his eyes and inhaled slowly as he calmed himself. So it was going to be like this. “I’m _not_ the one who _watches_ ,” he called out, even as he had watched Regis _saunter_ to the shower. Regis didn’t say anything and he heard the shower start. That royal _brat._ “I scheduled my morning sessions for 7 am now,” he added. He didn’t, but if that’s what it takes to get Regis out of bed at a decent hour, then that’s what happened.

The shower door slammed open and Regis, dripping wet, poked his head out, a scowl on his face. “You’re _cruel._ ”

He smirked. “Told 'ya I'd get  _creative._ ”


	2. Evening

_725 M.E._

“If he does not wake, you will be faced with a difficult decision.”

Regis could not see Lady Amicitia’s face, but he knew from her voice that the Shield had her jaw set and blue eyes steeled in the same expression she shared with her son. Over the phone, she sighed wearily, and Regis was reminded that she had already lost her husband and youngest son, and now perhaps Clarus; her eldest, her legacy.

She continued. “Letting my son, a Shield, waste away a slow death or end his life with dignity while it is still full of promise and strength; the way it was meant to be spent.” She paused, as if she was making her own decision.“You are his prince. His life is yours to see through. I trust that you will make the right choice, Your Highness.”

The Lady Shield possessed such an intense personality that Regis felt as if he were in her shadow, as if they were standing on the steps of the throne room and she was at her place beside his father instead of miles away, across the continent, merely a voice over the static of a hastily patched through phone call. She had been the first person his mind went to contact. Out here in Cleigne, he was a Prince only in title, but Clarus, he was always his Shield and he put that title to the test. His father warned him before they left that this was war they were heading into and even though the wall extended over the continent, death was always looming. He may very well return to the city Shieldless or not at all.

Both he and Clarus had glanced at each other, smiled, and foolishly believed they could prove their parents wrong. Foolish now, because Regis was afraid he would lose Clarus. That his father’s warning would be his reality. That he would lose his Shield, his friend, his…

His gut twisted as he thought about just what Clarus was becoming to him, and if he would ever have the chance to find out.

When he exited the tent, Cor’s desperate eyes locked on to his. “What did she say?”

He’d be irritated by Cor on a good day, and today was probably the worst one he’d ever had, but he let the questions, the childish attachment slide because Lady Amicitia was a second mother to him; Clarus a second brother to him. They both cared for Clarus in their own way and they both worried for him.

“She gave me a choice.” He had sought the advice of the Shield and she had given it to him.

“The hell does that mean?”

Regis whipped around. “ _It means_ ,” he whispered harshly, “what you _think_ it means. If he doesn’t wake up then—”

“-Then you’ll kill him?” Cor looked up at him, defiant, but Regis detected behind his blue eyes a hint of fear, a reminder that he was still so young, that all of them were still so young.

“ _Then I’ll make my decision_ ,” he growled, barely in control, angry with Cor, afraid for Clarus. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Weskham, Cid, and a few Crownsguard look in their direction but he didn’t care.

He stormed away, his fist balled and warming, the pull of the Crystal’s magic struggling to ignite in his hand. They wanted him to make the best decision, but what decision did Clarus want? He had no say in his own life, dutifully placing it in his hands, but neither of them had anticipated _this_ , a decision of dignity.

The part of him that was just _Regis_ wanted to keep him here, keep him breathing, warm, _alive_. But even as his own life was already in the grip of the Astrals, weakened, shortened, he knew as Prince, he must give Clarus an honorable death as was right for an Amicitia, for a Shield of the King, even if he did not see his prince ascend the throne.

But even still, he could not allow Clarus’ life to end like _this_. He couldn’t. Not after they had survived this campaign to Accordo unscathed, only for this to happen. And what _had_ happened? He was still trying to wrap his head around it.

It had been Clarus’ idea. Cor was being a brat, upset they had been called back to the city, and Clarus suggested they follow up on a daemon hunt the hunters were struggling with to distract him. Oddly lenient of him, but Regis suspected he was also disappointed they had to retreat so close to a resolution. So they had detoured to Taelpar Crag, a jagged scar of war on Eos and ventured into a valley of unusually strong daemons. The daemons had given them all the final resolution they needed to end this journey but Clarus, the lover of history that he was, spotted old ruins, old armor from the ancient era.

Regis remembered how his face had lit up, the excited smile that had spread across it. And he remembered, with startling clarity, the old bones that had risen on their own— tall bones, ancient men who had stood at nearly seven feet—and how they had slammed him into a column.

Cor sprang first, cutting them down, and he had burned them; the weather-worn cloth and brittle bones turning to ash. Somehow the two of them had carried him back to camp, but his condition, despite medicine and magic, had confounded them. He lay as if asleep, and that was as he was now, two days later.

Weskam stood watch over the makeshift infirmary, his monocle off to reveal both eyes tight and hard. Regis knew the look, the reason he was his chamberlain. Always very astute, he voiced his opinion. “Perhaps there is some sort of magic binding him, keeping him from waking.”

“What makes you say that?” And truly, no one else voices magic except those that used it and were bonded to the crystal. It was his suspicion as well.

Wes shook his head. “Something he mentioned to me the other night. A dream he had.”

“A dream?”

He gave an unsure gesture. “Just a thought.”

Regis reassured him and put his hand on his shoulder. “More than just a thought. Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

Shrugging, he gave a small smile. “He’s too busy watching you.”

He knew Wes meant as his Shield but he also knew better than to dismiss that he noticed the glances and smiles that lingered for longer than they should.

“Now I’m watching _him_. I’ll take over for a bit.”

Weskam nodded. “I’ll see if I can keep Cor busy.”

These long creeping hours, all he’d wanted to do was stay by Clarus’ side, but he had to lead, and, he smiled humorlessly, Clarus would have his hide if he found out he prioritized him above everything else.

Now, as he stepped into the tent, his eyes falling on Clarus’ still form, he must choose whether he _can_ keep him by his side or if he _should_. 

He was alone in his decision for the first time. Clarus was always there, an ear or a voice to his decision.

“What should I do, Clarus? What do you want?” Rarely do they get to choose what they want in their lives; always for the good of the crown and Lucis. Close as they were to ruling, they were still young and they had still more yet to learn. He’d only ever learned with Clarus. He didn’t think he could do it without him; he didn’t _want_ to.

Regis drew a long slow breath and released it. “I want _you._ ” Whether it was at his side or in his bed, he finally had the courage to say it aloud, to say it to _himself_ that he longed for Clarus, desired him, in a way that a prince should not for his Shield.

But was it courage to say it as he lay unconscious? As his fate lay in his hands? Or did fear force him into desperation? Yet another decision Clarus did not deserve. He drew his courage from him, who was his example, who pledged his death, faced it with determination and duty. And?

There was something else.

He looked to his face; calm, soft, peaceful— things he did not usually describe Clarus with. Full of energy, brimming with action, he was always moving. Hard angles and muscle mass and the prick of stubble. And conflict. Clarus was always at conflict with himself, with what his best action as Shield must be, with what undeniably was growing between them. Between a Shield and his Prince; between two friends.

He drew his courage, his strength from Clarus because Clarus let him be who he chose to be, even as they both became what they must. Because he represented the possibility of a different life. Or the option of another that fit within the demands of the Kingdom.

Clarus was his in nearly all ways. Yes, his life belonged to him, and freely, it was given to him, like his friendship, his trust, his respect, but he wished now, _knew_ now, that he wanted also his love.

And he knew it was love. With every passing day, they grew closer; his smile, his glance, his touch—it made his heart swell at the little intimacies that grew bolder.

All of those might be gone forever. Tomorrow they will transfer him to Coernix Station at his command, and then ahead to the City to get him either the care he needs, or the funeral he deserves.

Drawing closer, he placed his hand over his chest, his heart, feeling it beat steady, _strong_.

Regis finally felt the guilt and anger boil into fear and sorrow, his face growing hot, eyes welling. Either way, he would lose Clarus. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t _right_.

“Clarus,” he whispered. He feared calling him through their bond, afraid to find nothing. Clarus was always there; the magic, their link, bonded to his soul—why magic was so taxing on everyone who used it.

Clarus shuddered under him. It was slight, but Regis believed at first it was him waking, shaking the sleep off, but instead his breath curled in his face, as if they were still in that chilly cavern and not in the humid night air at the surface.

What Wes said came back to him. What if magic _was_ binding him, keeping him from waking? And it was then, with his hand over Clarus’ heart, that he realized he could also feel the thrum of magic.

Regis’ heart leapt. All magic came from the Crystal, and with the blood that ran through his veins, he might hold some sway over it. If he belonged to the Crystal, he would assert that Clarus belonged to him. Proclaim that his life and soul belonged to no other, and if whatever hold did not release him and recognize who he was, he would fight for him.

He steeled himself; this place was old, an ancient battleground, the earth split deep from the power of the Astrals, and the presence of magic here hinted at a greater force. He did not have the blessing of the Lucii yet for years to come, only what knowledge he had accumulated in three years time, and so he focused on the first thing he had learned to harness.

His hand over his heart, he called to Clarus through their bond.

Their bond was a constant ebb and flow. When he first partook of the Crystal’s blessing, he learned it was more an allowance of the stream of magic. With Clarus, it was demanding he channel that stream into something safe; too much and he could kill him. Clarus described it as an overwhelming current and within it, a cord, taut at times, connecting and drawing him towards Regis.

So he pulled, drawing Clarus back to him.

Clarus was never far, in that he could always feel his presence, but he struggled to reach him, as if he was being kept just out of his reach.

The nearer he felt himself become, the deeper he poured himself into the connection, the colder he began to feel, the chill of that cavern from earlier seeping into his bones, his mind, and he felt another presence, a great force that pressed against his and obscured Clarus’.

 _I have called him to test his mettle and it is his_ **_King_ ** _who comes to fight._

They were mocking words.

Regis pushed back. _Just as he is_ ** _my_** _Shield_.

 _A Shield_ **_unwilling_ ** _to prove he is worthy. He claims he cannot fight for himself and yet he quarrels with me here of his worth to you._

 ** _Release him_ ,** Regis demanded.

 _He holds himself here, perhaps of his guilt, his shame, this_ **_Unworthy One_ ** _._

_And why should he prove himself to you? I have already judged him and found him more than enough._

A belittling laugh reverberated throughout the connection. _You are not the first_ ** _Prince_** _to believe their judgement was best. And yet we must prepare for that failure. Heed my words, future King; the Crystal will soon make its choice. Whether the True King be you or from your line, I will call every Shield until I find one worthy to stand by Him, and it is not your place to interfere._

_My place is where the Crystal demands and none other._

The pressure intensified, and in his mind’s eye he saw two crimson eyes, the form of a towering figure manifesting, and the unveiling of a great bridge over a chasm. He waved his arm and a form that he knew to be Clarus appeared, gripped but the other.

 _This one here_ **_coddles_ ** _you and you_ **_allow it._ ** _I offer him power and he_ **_refuses_ ** _. Immobilized by fear, he will leave his King defenseless, unwilling to see if his ability is even worth that at all. He will fail. He has failed_ **_himself_ ** _and he will fail_ **_you_ ** _—_

Regis grew angry and surged through the bond. _—And who says_ ** _you_** _are worthy to test him? He is_ ** _my_** _Shield and no other’s. I have already made my choice and he has already sworn his oath. He is_ ** _mine._**

He sensed that this other’s magic was not directly from the Crystal’s as his was, and he knew it was his opening. He opened himself to the Crystal, asked for the power he needed to call Clarus back to him.

And he withdrew them from that pit, that graveyard of soldiers and swords, and took him to a safe place.

 

* * *

 

They woke in a field, the sky bright and without definition. He had never drawn that much power from the Crystal before.

Regis was spent; heaving, breathless among flowers.

“Regis?”

Beside him lay Clarus, sleepily peering up at the sky.

He nearly cried, overwhelmed with joy to hear his voice, to feel that his presence was right beside him. “Yes?”

“Where are we?”

This time, Regis laughed—what his body allowed him to—as he still recovered. “We’re safe. You’re safe.” Somehow his magic had brought them here, to a place of protection that only they could reside in, filled with images from his memories; yellow Caem carnations from the Citadel gardens that stretched to the horizon, and the shimmering collection of clouds that hovered above the bubble of the Wall.

Clarus was quiet for a long moment and exhaled heavily, and Regis turned his head slightly to see his jaw ticking as he mulled over what to say.

“I can’t leave you,” he said finally. “Not even to test if I am worthy to call myself your Shield.”

“You don’t need to prove yourself to me, Clarus. Or anyone.”

“Not even myself?” Clarus turned his head to look at him.

“Clarus…” He struggled to find what to say. “If you want to—”

“—I do.”

Regis turned to face him fully.

“But I won’t leave you,” he finished. “Not until the end.”

He felt Clarus squeeze his hand and he realized that their hands had been joined this whole time.

“—And if I _don’t_ want you to leave me that way—”

Clarus huffed, rolling to look at the sky again. “—It is not your choice how I die. _When_ , but not how. No more than I can choose to save you from the Crystal’s toll.” He paused, considering if he should say his next words. “What we desire and what will come to pass will not be the same.”

“Unless we make it so.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself and Clarus turned again to face him, his expression unreadable. The way he considered him, his blue eyes full of the things that remained unspoken between them, made his heart swell at the possibilities.

“What we _desire_?” Regis whispered. He saw that Clarus’ eyes took in the shape of his face and fell to his lips, his grip on his hand tightening.

“And what will come to pass.”

Regis wondered what he meant by that. Marriages, heirs, the future of the kingdom, the end of this war? Perhaps all of it. “We’ll die together then.”

Clarus’ eyes returned back to his, uncertain and yet resolute. It was not something they could promise, not without heirs, with the state of the kingdom as it were, but Regis felt they had many years yet, and perhaps many battles. And when they were old, and his knees could no longer support his weight and their hair had turned white, their muscles grown soft, then they can decide how they wished to let things pass. Because he could not do it alone without him.

Clarus swiped his thumb gently over his. “If that is your wish, _my King,_ ” he whispered.

He felt himself overwhelmed at his first utterance of the title, and that yet again, without hesitation, Clarus had pledged his life to him once more. He pressed his hand into the calloused and worn one that held his and answered, “For as long as it is yours, _my Shield._ ”

Nodding, Clarus held his gaze for a moment longer and returned to looking at the sky. Regis could not help but think that even in this safe space, Clarus still sought to protect him, unaware it was he who was the protected this time, how closely he had come to death.

“You scared us. Scared me.”

Turning his head, Clarus gave him an odd look. “As if that’s not the most magic you’ve channeled through yourself. You could have killed us both.”

Regis pouted. “But I didn’t.”

“Thank you.” A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “How do you feel?”

All he was still capable of was moving his head and continuing to gently grasp his hand, even if they were still within this dream haven. “Tired. You?”

Clarus glanced away and Regis could feel his thumb again caressing his. “I could rest a bit longer.”

“We can stay here for a bit, until we’re ready.”

His eyes met his again. “I’d like that.”

Regis smiled.

“Why flowers?” Clarus asked after a moment.

He shrugged. They had always found themselves walking in the gardens since they were children. “Because you like them.”


	3. Dawn

“His Majesty is having difficulty getting out of bed this morning.”

Gaius Scientia’s uneven voice over the phone tested his ability to get to Regis in the shortest amount of time.

On average it takes him eight minutes to get from his door to the Citadel. Ten to the throne room, twelve to the Council Chambers and fourteen to Regis’ private quarters on the forty-third floor of the East Tower. He could shave off two minutes at the most, if the situation was dire enough, but that required monumental coordination with the entire Crownsguard and shutting down every street within five blocks of the Citadel—and thank the Astrals there had never been a situation where that was needed.

Until today.

Regis’ personal line to him had rung and he knew it was trouble. If Regis needed something from him, even if it was to spend the night, he used his cell phone, texted even. His instinct took over; he told Gaius he’d be there immediately, called Cor to have Gladio and Ignis on stand by in case they needed to get the prince prepped and notified, left a note for Jared and peeled out of the driveway.

Two minutes. He prayed to the Astrals and in the same breath cursed them. If he lost Regis—

No. Clarus forced that aside. The Friend, the Brother, the _Lover_ could not take over his thoughts. Until he got to Regis, until he was safe, alive, his smile beaming back to him, he could only be Shield.

At 6am the streets were empty enough but he got stuck behind a damn street sweeper on Fortuna Street and _yes_ they were doing their jobs, and any other day, he’d make sure to show his appreciation with a wave, but he honked aggressively until they pulled to the side to let him pass.

Four minutes. He reached the gate to the Citadel, the guards on edge at him veering through the promenade, taking the last turn through the roundabout at forty-five and slamming to a stop at the East Tower entrance. The tires on his Crown Car were probably shot, and despite the situation, it raced across his mind that the Regalia would have taken the beating like a champ. Keys in the ignition, he left it running, a Crownsguard already prepared to relieve it from him, perhaps at Cor’s command. The elevator was already called down, and he lost ten fucking seconds of time when he fucked up his code and just entered the Deus Contingency code; second highest in urgency, denoting the imminent danger of the King. The highest, Rex Contingency, well— he drew a long breath. He always figured he’d be dead and Cor would be the one to activate it. Because any scenario in which Regis was… in which _a King_ was dead, it meant more than his personal failure. It meant he had lost what was most precious to him.

The finest mechanical engineering this side of Eos had built these express elevators to perform well above any other, but every second that drew him nearer to Regis also kept him apart. They needed to be faster.

Six minutes. The elevator let him off and he sprinted down the corridor, undoing his collar, pushing his aging body to its limit. At fifty, he knew it was unwise to do so in his dress shoes, the lack of traction on the marble tiles threatening a sprain or ankle break.

Cor was outside the door, texting, keeping contact with the boys, waiting for him to alert anyone else if need be.

Eight minutes. He looked to Cor’s face to determine the situation, to prepare himself for the state Regis was in, and before he crossed the door, he caught his arm. Years of discipline were the only thing that stopped him from breaking it, and Cor knew it, knew he was keeping him from Regis.

Still, the lines on his face told Clarus he was just as worried about him than he was of Regis.

“He needs you.”

Clarus used the moment to recollect himself, to calm, to be the rock that Regis needed, unlike the one full of magic that only _took_. Cor was satisfied with the composure and released him. He nodded his thanks and steeled himself as he walked through the foyer.

Nine minutes. Cicero stood at the edge of the bedroom, alert and tense, waiting to relay what he needed to Cor, but just as worried. Because at fifty, unwilling to retire, he too, had worked with the King just as long as they had.

Through the final doorway at last, Clarus approached the bed, witnessing Gaius pleading with Regis, “My King, please, you must—”

“— _Clarus_ ,” he cried. “Get _Clarus_.”

Regis dismissed Gaius away impatiently, a testament to his pain. Never once had he ever lost his patience with him, nor was Gaius a man who was unversed in the nuances of his moods.

And it _wrenched_ at his heart to see Gaius’ poise lost and uncertain and Regis balanced at the edge of the bed, doubled over in pain.

“My King, _I’m here_ ,” he whispered, the weight of him making the bed dip further as he sat beside Regis. His arm came across the width of his shoulders, the fingers of his other hand slipping over the delicate skin of his wrist. The gravitas of Regis’ collapse into his arms, his relief at his proximity, was all at once overwhelming. They knew this day would come, _he_ knew, but now that it was here and his prince, his _King_ was suffering for the protection of the kingdom, Clarus could only pull him close and give him the strength he’s spent a lifetime building for this moment.

“Clarus.” Regis turned his face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, drawing his strength. “I can no longer bear weight on it.”

He drew him closer, ignoring the presences of Gaius, Cor, and Cicero. “I know,” he said, just as he knew Regis had made several attempts this morning. His admission meant he had finally come to terms with his condition, that despite his stubbornness, he knew that he was at his end of independent mobility. But despite reaching this milestone, as far as monarchs went, Regis’s effort was to be commended. Other kings had crumpled fast, others compromised significantly. As it were, they were in uncharted territory.

Mors had consolidated the Wall in stages, but it came at a heavy price, becoming confined to a wheelchair within a week of doing so. Regis was the first to hold it fully at this concentrated intensity, a monumental effort, and if he had his way keeping it at bay for Noctis, then he may very well be the last.

Clarus supposed he was grateful for the grim tradeoff. History had shown them by thirty a king could not walk unaided, and rarely did they live to see their fiftieth year. He was confidant Regis had another five years in him, spurred by will alone—and perhaps an old bet to live as long as Cid. At forty-five, he was nearly there.

In this moment, his mother’s words came back to him. _It means seeing your King at his weakest._

“Allow yourself to rest, my King,” Clarus said, even as he knew there was no true rest for him until death. The Wall must be upheld always. Many times he wished to unload the burden, to hold the Wall for even just the briefest of moments, but never as much as today. As Regis shifted to lay back down, Clarus caressed his knee, helped him ease it in the transition with no qualms about touching him so intimately in front of this group amassed. They knew of them, but he was also going to comfort Regis in whichever way was best.

Today he would run the Kingdom, as was becoming more frequent these days. The paperwork, the meetings, the audiences; he’d done it all and he’ll do it today once he was certain Regis’s condition was taken care of.

Turning to the men, he gave his orders. The physician first and then returning Gaius’ poise. “Cicero, please inform Antoninus of His Majesty’s condition this morning and allow him his breakfast before he arrives.”

Cicero bowed his exit. “My Lord Shield. Your Majesty.”

Clarus bit back his displeasure, the title unwanted here because in the sanctum of Regis’ quarters, he cannot deny the progression of his ailments; the slow deterioration of his abilities. He could pretend, _did_ pretend for years, that the inevitable was still in the distant future, but today was a jolting reminder for all of them that that future was now here.

“Gaius, won’t you please draw a hot bath for His Majesty and make the necessary adjustments to our schedules?”

He, too, bowed his exit to start his duties. “It will be done, My Lord Shield. Your Majesty.”

With Cor remaining, Clarus turned to him now. “Update the boys?” A question, not a command. Cor nodded, readyto take the brunt of their sons’ fear, anger, anxiety—all the uncertainty Clarus was feeling right now, but without the discipline.

“Thank-you,” Regis said to him, the trace of a smile in the setting of his grimace.

Cor’s face set into an equally painful grimace. “Of course.” As he left turned to Clarus. “Take care of him.”

Clarus nodded and when he returned his attention to Regis once more, Regis pouted.

“I know that look,” he said.

“What look?”

Regis inclined his head. “The worried look you have more and more each day.”

Clarus exhaled irritably. “Because I’m worried for you more and more each day. _This_ day of all days.”

Sighing, Regis took his hand and Clarus forced himself to ignore that the grip grows weaker with each passing day. “There will be more of these days.” He studied their hands and figured what he was thinking, perhaps through their bond, and Clarus was angry at himself for letting that come through. Regis moved his hand to his cheek, letting his fingers play at the shorn hair at his neck. “We made a vow to die together,” he whispered. “I intend to keep it.”

Maybe that was sooner than they thought, or maybe, they just might have another decade. Clarus met Regis’ eyes and hoped that didn’t mean Regis would go looking for a fight. They weren’t young anymore.

“Good,” Clarus said.

Regis narrowed his eyes, his thumb catching at the corner of Clarus’ lips. “That goes for you, too. I won’t forbid you from doing something so noble as your duty and calling, but I won’t ever forgive you if you leave me alone with our sons.”

Clarus smiled sadly and placed his hand on Regis’ cheek as well. “You’re so stubborn. You know that right?”

There was a flash of Regis’ younger self in his grey eyes and he grinned. “I did warn you that I was never _easy._ ”

“A fact I am always _painfully_ aware of.”

Regis hummed his approval, taking Clarus’s hand and turning his head to kiss the inside of his palm. “And you’ve always done well to remember it, my Shield.”

As he brushed his thumb over Regis’ cheekbone, he allowed himself a real smile, glad to have eased his king.

Leaning forward again, struggling to swing out of bed, Regis swatted Clarus’ shoulder. “Now help me with my bath.”

He still gritted his teeth but Clarus laughed. It’s not the first bath or shower he’s helped him with, but what was he intending? “Is that what you’ve been hoping for?”

“For you to carry me naked in your arms and bathe me? I’ve been waiting my whole life.”

Rolling his eyes, Clarus lined up alongside him, helped him ease his leg down again, and placed his arm over his shoulders. “You’re mistaken if you think I won’t try and preserve your dignity, but maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Regis peered sidelong at him, the corner of his mouth tugging. “And if I commanded you to?”

They stood up slowly, Regis gingerly testing weight on his knee again, only to regret it; Clarus took more of the weight off.

“Try me. I’ll get creative.” As they headed towards the bathroom, his other arm slid down from Regis’ waist and squeezed a cheek.

Surprised, Regis pouted at him. “You’re _cruel._ ”

He turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to his temple. “If you say so, my King. I did also tell you I was _creative._ ”


End file.
